


sophomore slump or comeback of the year

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Fluff, M/M, Recovery, man idk what else to tag it, mentions of anthoine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21749071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: "Pierre's getting better- gradually, with small steps and big ones, good days and bad days, his own sense of ambition and self preservation clawing him back up from the depths, his own determination pushing him forward..."
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Max Verstappen
Comments: 13
Kudos: 59





	sophomore slump or comeback of the year

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, if eating disorders/mentions of eating disorders are triggering to you, i'd suggest leaving this now. some of it is pretty heavy and unhappy and i want everyone to stay safe.  
this is what id like to call "coast should be studying for her finals but she was really going through it so she stayed up til 3 and wrote this instead". it was originally 1000 words. needless to say, it got a bit out of control.  
i would just like to clarify that 1) EDs are very...individual and cover such a broad amount of disorders, and generalizing all people with them to look, act, or behave the same is mostly incorrect and 2) recovery is also individual and very nuanced, for some people its easier than others. same goes with most mental health issues. this in no way intends to romanticize or glorify the often ugly, nonromantic side of mental health issues.  
this was very loosely inspired by "love after love" by derek walcott.  
as always, please dont post this elsewhere or share it out of AO3 without the authors permission. this is fiction, none of it is real, please keep it that way and keep it safe and sound here.  
title is a fall out boy song.

_It was never about beauty. It was never about looking pretty. It was more than skin deep, more than his own reflection in the mirror. Ironically, it was something bigger than himself. _

"Pierre," Max breathes, thumb gently brushing against a pronounced cheekbone as he cups the Frenchman's face in his warm hands, "Why do you do this to yourself? You're already gorgeous as it is, you don't have to-"

"I'm not," he snaps, but pushes Max's hand away with a contrasting gentleness. Max still smells like podium champagne and it makes something other than hunger twist Pierre's stomach into angry knots. "I'm not. It's not because of that, you-"

"I what?" Max pries, eyes narrowed critically, but he links their fingers together anyways. 

"You wouldn't get it," Pierre finishes, shaking his head- and Max wouldn't. He'd never known much other than victory, than being hailed as the next best thing. _Wunderkind. Generational talent._

"Please," Max begs, "then please, make me understand," he whispers, but Pierre is already pulling away, forcing his way out of the interaction.

"Congrats on the podium, Max. I'll see you in Monaco," his words punctuated by a single click as the door closes on silence once more.

_Something more. The words taste like bile in Pierre's throat, like the burn of acid he's become all too familiar with. He was supposed to be something more, something better. Unrealized potential._

The team don't ask about it- he never lets himself go to the point where it becomes too suspicious, where the kilos drop so suddenly that he appears terminal. Not enough to weigh too little, to tip off the FIA. They raise eyebrows and then shrug- he can just lie and say he's spent more time in the gym, just wants to bulk up a bit more. It doesn't matter anyway, to them it's more ballast, more balance in the car. _Maybe this will make him more competitive_, he thinks, the team thinks, everyone thinks; they can just move around the extra weight and the _viola_, everything will work out in the end. 

It doesn't.

_It's a meal here and there, the ones Pyry doesn't monitor, the ones where he can lie his way out, say _oh no I already ate _and nobody bats an eye. He may not have the racing talent but he's not stupid- skip too much, eat too little and it becomes obvious that something's wrong. Plaster that same smile on your face and take an apple when it's offered and it'll all be okay._

"You're sick," Max says dumbly, like it's not blatantly obvious after finding Pierre with tear tracked cheeks hunched over the toilet in the bathroom between their drivers rooms. 

"Shouldn't you be out celebrating, race winner?" Pierre's head hurts and he just wants to sleep; he had skipped out on going back to the hotel with Pyry and the rest of his side of the garage in order to wait for Max, and now he regrets it.

"You're sick," Max repeats, squatting down and rubbing small circles onto his spine. Pierre thinks if he didn't look, think, feel so miserable he'd appreciate the warm and familiar touch, but really he just wants Max to leave him the fuck alone. He scrambles to his feet, legs unsteady beneath him like those of a newborn fawn, and grips the edge of the sink when his head starts to spin.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Max mumbles quietly, hand reaching out to hold Pierre's elbow and steady him, "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

_Easy for you to say, boy wonder,_ Pierre thinks, turning on the tap and splashing the coldest water it'll offer onto his face. When he looks up and makes eye contact with his reflection, it takes every ounce of restraint not to wince at the bloodshot eyes, the swollen lips, the sunken cheeks. _And you, you look like a stranger._

"Just tell me what you need, Pierre, please," Max pleads with the reflection._ If only he knew that this isn't me._ "I can't keep watching you do this to yourself, you're going to hurt yourself and I can't-" Max wraps strong arms around Pierre's middle, buries his face in the Frenchman's shoulder- and it's jarring that this Pierre, obsessed with doing whatever it takes to go faster doesn't feel much different under his touch than the old Pierre, the one who didn't care what the world made of him as long as he could satisfy his own ambition.

"I need to go faster," Pierre deadpans, turning around in Max's embrace and pressing a quick peck to his lips- they taste like alcohol. _Oh yeah, he just won,_ Pierre reminds himself bitterly, his own DNF an ugly scar across virgin skin, but the thought fades when Max gives him a gentle and concerned smile. "I'll be fine, you don't need to worry about me."

"You're not taking care of yourself," the smile on Max's face slips into a frown as he speaks, "What happens if you pass out while you're driving because you aren't eating before a race, Pierre?" he questions, eyes filled with an indescribable sadness, "I always worry about you." And it's true- he may be the younger of the two, but when Pierre showed up in the garage alongside him and that familiar grin was replaced with a near permanent frown after the crashes in tests and the tenths in qualifying added up, the concern for his beloved Frenchman had become a bit more consuming.

"You don't need to. I can take care of myself. I have been taking care of myself. I can stop whenever I want to, whenever I catch up," Pierre quips coldly, the _to you_ implied without words, and it makes Max's heart sting. _Pierre, baby_ he wants to whisper into the soft strands of Pierre's unruly hair, wants them to be half asleep and content, cuddled up on the couch of his Monaco apartment, _you're already more of a racer than most of the world will ever be. _

"Please," Pierre's voice softens, and he wraps his arms around Max's neck and gives a reassuring squeeze, a slightly longer kiss, "Please stop worrying about me. If I get in too deep, I'll tell you, but I can't lose this opportunity right now."

Max doesn't believe him- but somehow, it feels more cruel to threaten to tell Christian, to fill the rest of the team in on Pierre's dirty, self-destructive little secret. 

_He doesn't feel a thing when Helmut calls to tell him that his dream is over. _There's a hotel room in Faenza booked for you in four weeks,_ and Pierre just mumbles a confirmation into the speaker and thanks Dr. Marko for his time. The numbness is all consuming, covers up the guilt and shame and cramping of hunger in his stomach all the same, until he's sure he's in a sea of emptiness, cold water rushing over his head and drowning him in nothing._

It's a pounding on the front door of his apartment that wakes him from his stupor- and really, he's the only one of his social group that lives in Italy, and now is not the time for salesman-

Max. Looking apologetic, pained, utterly despairing. Like he's feeling everything Pierre can't.

"I love you," he starts, pushes both of them into the apartment, "I love you so much, no matter what."

Pierre doesn't respond. Shuffles his feet, ignores the glint of tears he can see in Max's eyes.

"Fuck," Max gasps, finally letting what little facade he was managing drop as he pulls Pierre in against his own body, face buried in the bronzey tones of Pierre's mop of hair. He breathes in sharply, inhales the familiar scent of birch and eucalyptus from Pierre's shampoo and lets the emotions flood him. 

"Fuck, I'm no good at apologies," Max trails off, "but I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, you didn't deserve this," he stammers, one hand gripping tight into the loose material of Pierre's shirt. 

Pierre manages a smile that's much like the rest of him- hollow. 

"It's okay. I did. This was bound to happen," he says, like it's not a massive blow to his confidence, his self esteem, his everything. He doesn't expect Max to look angry, doesn't expect the frustrated tone that escapes the Dutchman's throat.

"Stop it, Pierre. Why are you doing this to yourself? You're killing yourself for a team that doesn't care about you, you're ignoring those of us that do, you're-" Max inhales deeply, voice and countenance softening, "You need help. You need help, and I can't give it to you-"

"Max," Pierre starts, voice sickeningly sweet, "We've gone through this before. I love you too," he pauses, not even thinking, "Please get out."

It's the look of betrayal that Max wears that'll haunt Pierre's mind the longest, the confusion and sadness that cloud familiar baby blues with tears.

"Fine. Whatever will make you feel better," he says, making his way to the door, "Like I said, I love you no matter what." He steps into the doorway, shakes his head one final time.

"Oh, and Pierre?"

"Hm, Max?"

"I told Pyry and Franz."

_At first, he doesn't want to believe Max would do that to him. At least, he believes that until he returns to Faenza a week later-_

_and immediately it seems a dozen arms are there to hold him and welcome him back to the team that taught him so much, voices speaking promises of improvements in whispered Italian. Pierre wishes he could relate._

Franz is as serious as ever- not quite Helmut Marko, but never as free spirited as Christian, either. Stern, but not unnecessarily harsh. Pierre's always respected the man as his team principal, alway's heeded Franz's advice, but this time it all feels a little too surreal when he's called in after his seat fitting for a one on one meeting.

"So, Pierre," Franz says in his ever commanding accent, "are you liking being back with the team?"

"Yes, sir," Pierre answers, which is at least true- the spirit in Faenza differed drastically from that in Milton Keynes, and Pierre had forgotten how much he loved the endless enthusiasm everyone in Toro Rosso exhibited, even in darker hours. 

"Good. We like having you back, too," Franz replies curtly, and Pierre lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding at the admission- that maybe, for once, he's not an outcast here too. The smallest twinges of a smile twitch his lips- he's not in France, but with every passing second in Faenza feels like he's home.

"Max told me you're dealing with... illness," Franz adds, pauses as if to search for the right words, and the air is sucked of Pierre's lungs once again, "That we need to help you. Is this true?"

And Pierre knows he can't lie as Franz stares sympathetic daggers through him. He fidgets uncomfortably under the steely gaze, hands buried in the pockets of his bright blue Toro Rosso windbreaker. 

"Yes, sir," he gulps, feeling guilty to admitting such. _This is not what they want out of an F1 driver, a glaring mark of weakness in the face of adversity._

"Well," his new and old team principal starts, "I know you've had a tough season so far, Pierre. But we believe in you, we want you here," he picks up a pen and twirls it between his fingers, "And we want you to feel your very best. Whatever it takes. But you have to be willing to try as well." He pauses, drops the pen and leans forward onto his desk, "Are you willing to try?"

And Pierre feels trapped, he feels sick, but above all he feels determined. _Red Bull never would have done this for me._

"I," he sighs, shakes his head, "I can try."

Franz smiles like Pierre's never seen before, stands up and urges Pierre to do the same.

"Good," he states simply, reaching to give Pierre a firm pat on the back, "I've talked to Pyry. We have a sports therapist and nutritionist as you may need."

Pierre wants to groan- he doesn't actually want either of those things, doesn't even want Pyry meddling in his business, but Franz is here giving him a second chance, so he can't act too turned off by it.

"Okay," he finally answers, and then Franz pulls him in for a bone crushing hug.

"Welcome home."

_His heart's not really in it at first._

_The last week of the summer break leading up to Spa, Pyry brings him meals and watches Pierre eat painfully slowly, encourages him to have a few bites more before a workout and drink a little bit more water while they're together, and he obliges mostly to keep his trainer happy and the dreaded nutritionist at bay. _

_But it doesn't change the emptiness; the lack of passion. It's all going through the motions, doing the same workouts and running the sim and checking in with Franz every other day. Pyry gently reminds him about Franz's offer for therapy, but even the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. _No, I'm okay.

It's not until Spa, until the news about Anthoine breaks that the hard shell of nothingness finally cracks.

Charles is the first to find him in the paddock after word spreads- and his childhood friend pulls him in for a bonecrushing hug and leaves a wet spot on his shoulder from hot tears.

"Why?" Charles mumbles against Pierre's shirt, the older man gently petting circles onto the Monegasque's shoulder blade, "Why does this keep happening to us?"

For the first time in months, Pierre finally feels overcome with emotion. Salty tears brim his own eyes.

"I don't know," he mumbles, tugging his friend closer, "I don't know."

They stay like that for an admittedly long time, nobody daring to bother them. Charles is the first to pull away, holds Pierre at an arms length and makes unwavering eye contact-

"Pierre. I am so thankful you're alive," he says, "I am so grateful for you. For our friendship. _Je t'aime_."

"Me too, Charlot, me too. _Je t'aime aussi._"

It's not until later that night, after he's eaten his dinner and been cleared by Pyry to go, after he's alone and back into a nondescript Belgian hotel room that it hits him, all at once. One moment he's holding a hotel paper cup of water and the next it's on the ground, he's on the ground, every sob he failed to feel before wracking his body. It's all gone to shit in such little time, everything crashing down in a few short months.

The wall length mirror flashes in the corner of his eye. He can only gape at himself in the reflection- or what seems to be himself.

Tired eyes and prominent cheekbones, a hallowed look that Pierre doesn't think suits him at all. Charles words ring like a mantra- _I am so thankful you're alive._

Even in the brutal reflection of the ghost of himself, Pierre can finally agree.

_It's not easy, getting better, even after Pyry finally convinces him to talk to someone and the numbness starts to subside. There are some meals he simply can't force down- the thought of even a single bite makes him feel nauseous, gives him a pounding headache. He even ends up dry heaving in the hospitality suite once, before Monza- and much to his surprise, it's not his trainer or even a concerned team member that stops to check on him, but Franz himself._

_"Do you feel well enough to race later today?" his team principal asks when Pierre finally scrambles off the tile and out of the bathroom, a comforting and heavy hand on his shoulder. Pierre thinks if he hadn't already scraped rock bottom he'd feel embarrassed. _This is why you're not in Red Bull anymore.

_"Yeah, yeah, I'll be okay," he musters, scrubs at his face with his hands, "Just a bad reaction. I...just need some rest."_

_"Take your time. Consider your PR for this morning cancelled," Franz adds, and Pierre really wonders what he's done thats managed to finally rope him a team so compassionate. _

_"And Pierre?" Franz adds right as Pierre slides open the door to his driver's room. He turns around, tips his head to the side a bit-_

_"Hm?" _

_"You're doing great. We're all very proud."_

Pierre has always loved Japan- the people, the sights, the culture, and especially the food. He's actually, finally grateful that food is starting to appeal to him again when they're in Tokyo for a Honda event- even plans to drag Daniil to a hole in the wall ramen shop he used to frequent back when his time was split between Japan and France. 

It's all starting to go right when Max catches him after the event, pulls him to an empty conference room and cups Pierre's face in both of his hands.

"Max," he sighs, unsure of what to make of it all. It's a mental hurdle he still hasn't managed to get over- while the Dutchman's interference had lead to Pierre gradually and slowly recovering, returning to his old smiley self, it had still been a betrayal of his trust. Plus, Pierre knows Max well enough to know the inevitable interrogation he'll get when they finally return to semi-normal- and he's not ready for it, yet.

"You look great," Max smiles, "You look healthy," he says pointedly.

"Max," Pierre tries again, "Don't patronize me. You forget I'm older than you."

Max drops his hands, traces a line down Pierre's wrists and intertwines their fingers. He's still smiling, and it's almost grating on Pierre's nerves.

"No, I don't forget. I'm just proud of you. I miss you," he says truthfully, face falling a bit when Pierre fails to react.

"Listen, Max, we need to actually talk about this, and I can't right now, me and Dany have plans-"

"Oh," Max stiffens, hurt in his voice, "Okay. Don't let me hold you up, then..."

Pierre sighs, feeling a bit shitty for letting Max down, but he's just not prepared for that conversation. Max looks a little pissed off, but his face softens when Pierre presses a soft kiss to his cheek.

"Find me in Mexico, and then we'll talk," he whispers, before disappearing back into the hallway.

_Mexico is hard._

_It starts out fine enough. He and Dany go and do silly press events- Mexico's always a party, and when their PR officers grin and make them do something silly in front of the camera, Pierre can't even fight the smile that's plastered on his face. He puts down impressive times in Friday practice, satisfied that he's finally found some rhythm in something this season, and then it all starts to go downhill._

_He hasn't been sick due to something out of his own control in a long time- can't even remember the last time he caught a stomach virus, but doesn't have to recall when he's in so much pain he can barely catch a couple hours of sleep later that night._

_It doesn't get that much better over the course of the weekend. He feels fine at the beginning of qualifying, but by the end he's nauseous and lightheaded and the team seems to part around him to give him space. They don't bother forcing him to eat- and after Dany quietly agrees to take over his media commitments, Pierre is happy to return to the hotel and fall into bed for whatever pitiful rest he can get._

He can hear a keycard sliding into his door, can't be assed to flip over in bed and see who it is when a sliver of light from the hallway cuts through his room and disappears again when the door closes. Soft footsteps pad across the room, growing closer, and the bed dips under the weight of someone who slips in comfortably behind Pierre, gently embraces him.

"Hey," a familiar Dutch accent whispers into his ear, "I heard you weren't feeling well this weekend."

Pierre wants to protest, to tell Max he's _just fine_ even if everything has screamed the opposite, but he lacks the energy. He sighs, rolling his eyes in the darkness of the hotel.

"How did you even get a key?" Pierre wonders aloud, sounding mildly exasperated, but he snuggles back into Max's broad chest anyway.

"Franz told me you were sick," Max says, hand sliding up under Pierre's shirt to gently trace soothing shapes onto the skin of his aching stomach, "and I didn't forget that you said to find you here."

"Shitty weekend for that," Pierre mumbles quietly, eyes half lidded. It's long awed him how well Max is at comforting him in one off moments like this, when it's just a quick sickness ailing him and not an entire half season of pressure. _Even then,_ Pierre begins to think but promptly shakes the thought away.

"Yeah, I know," Max huffs against Pierre's neck, "You should just rest now. We can talk later, when you feel better. But I'm not leaving you this time."

"Okay," Pierre whispers, already partially asleep in Max's arms, "Thank you, Max. Love you."

He can feel Max relax behind him, nuzzle in closer, a familiar warmth against the chill of his own bones.

"Don't thank me, Pierre. Hope you feel better soon," he yawns, "and I love you too."

_Austin is forgettable; Max gets another podium and Pierre quietly retires. They don't talk about it after Mexico, even though some little bit of it is eating away at them both, but when Pierre throws a silly wink in Max's direction in the paddock, he gets a tentative smile and thumbs up back. It's a forgettable weekend, sure, but nowadays he understands that sometimes those are necessary evils- and Toro Rosso handles them with a lot more grace than Red Bull ever did. It's a refreshing thing, feeling secure and needed, wanted by his own team- even after a DNF and a penalty on Dany, they all just pack up and talk about brighter weekends in the future. For the first time in nearly a year, Pierre thinks he feels the same way._

They finally talk.

They meet in Max's hotel room in Austin- he orders takeout and smiles when Pierre snatches the box of Pad Thai and dramatically claims it as his own. 

"You know our trainers are gonna kill us for this, right?" Pierre quips, but he's not really hesitating as he fumbles to get a grip on his chopsticks.

"A happy death," Max replies, "I would do anything for sesame chicken," and Pierre snorts. He still eats excruciatingly slowly and methodically- like he must truly consider each bite- and a smaller portion than Max, but it still makes him feel kind of giddy to see Pierre just let loose and eat mostly normally again.

When the boxes are finally thrown away, Max pulls Pierre onto the bed next to him, entangles their legs. It's finally the inevitable that Pierre can no longer deny-

"Alright. Talk," Max urges, gently but with a firmness to his voice. Pierre inhales sharply- where to start, even, on this rollercoaster of a season?

"It started after Australia," he begins, and Max looks a bit mortified to know it was that early, "I was so afraid of letting everyone down-"

"You didn't," Max interrupts, but Pierre just shushes him.

"Don't lie to me to spare my feelings. Anyways, I just wanted to be able to keep up," he shakes his head softly, "To be more like Daniel. So I figured- lose a few, move the ballast, have balance. Find some way to be better. It felt like a punishment I deserved," Pierre mumbles, "It didn't work." Max sucks in a breath, reaches out to brush a misplaced tuft of hair off Pierre's forehead.

"I know you think I was going to lose control and hurt myself but I was very, very careful," he laughs humorlessly, "I'm sure if I wasn't I would've been demoted even sooner."

Max flinches at that, the word demoted- back then, it hadn't seemed fair, but now it seemed Pierre had turned out better than ever, even his skin back to its normal tan thanks to the Italian sunshine of Toro Rosso's HQ.

"Pierre..." he breathes, throws an arm over the Frenchman's waist and drags their bodies closer. It's shame or guilt that fills him up- _if only I could've made it easier for you, fought harder for you to be next to me. _

"What can I say?" Pierre whispers, mostly rhetorically, "It's been a shitty year. But it's getting better. I'm-" he sighs, trails off, "I'm getting better."

Max doesn't respond, stares into familiar deep blue eyes and catalogs everything he sees there. More than anything he's struck by Pierre's resilience, his perseverance to get up and drag himself from rock bottom, back up into the glorious sunlight he so desperately missed. 

"When you told me you told them," mutters Pierre even as Max stares, "I was upset. It felt like...betrayal. I was in a really bad place, then..." he trails off. It took time, but he's finally clearheaded enough to admit that he had been at his absolute worst when Helmut called to drop the bad news.

Max looks guilty, again- "I'm sorry," he says quietly, but Pierre just shakes his head and cuts him off with a "stop apologizing".

"I was so worried about you, I had never seen you like that," Max continues, "I cared. Even if you think nobody else did, I did, I-"

"Yeah. I know. Thank you. For..." Pierre's soft voice trails off into the white noise of the hotel room, "For everything."

"You deserve good things, Pierre," Max mumbles, wants to tell the Frenchman he deserves the entire world and then some- but he doesn't, instead just scoots so their bodies are fully intertwined under the comforter and wraps his arms around Pierre's waist to squeeze him softly.

Pierre's getting better- gradually, with small steps and big ones, good days and bad days, his own sense of ambition and self preservation clawing him back up from the depths, his own determination pushing him forward, and Max has never felt prouder.

_Of course, when the days are good, they're rarely better._

_Brazil is insanity. Pierre's not exactly sure what's happened- first he's P7 and then P5 and then P3 and then on that fateful last lap he barely manages to stave off the silver Mercedes behind him, and _P2 Pierre P2_ they're shouting over the radio to him and he's shouting back, throat burning from his screams._

_Parc ferme is surreal- when he scrambles out of the car his first instinct is to find his team, Toro Rosso who has given him their everything, and he bounds into the grasp. The slap his helmet and tug at his fireproofs and cheer Gasly, Gasly, Gasly. Pierre thinks it's the most whole he's felt all season._

_And then the Red Bull team is calling him over, his old crewmates, the ones who tried desperately to build him a competitive car, who rebuilt his chassis even after accidents that left it in pieces, the few in his old garage that never lost their faith. He jumps into their waiting arms, too- this is redemption for them all, not just him._

_It's not until he's pulled his helmet and balaclava off that he notices that Max is the Red Bull he's parked next to, that the Dutchman is gonna be on the podium next to him, that-_

_He doesn't get to finish his thought, gets tackled into a massive and sweaty hug soon thereafter._

_"We did it! You did it! That was amazing!" Max is saying, but Pierre can barely make it out over the sound of his own heart pouding in his ears, just lets Max hug him tighter, "You deserved this."_

_For the first time all season, Pierre finally thinks he can agree._

_Bad days thankfully start to mean less of a torture sentence as well. Abu Dhabi isn't great- and Pierre is pissed off that Stroll has once again ruined his race, ruined his championship chances, but he's mostly glad the season is over. It's been the longest, weirdest year of his life- simultaneously the best and worst- and really, he can't wait to sleep in his own bed again, recalibrate his sleep schedule, to go home and see the Christmas lights and have time away from the circus of his career._

_The team thanks him, and he returns the favor, thinks to himself _I don't know where I'd be without you guys._ He's on a late flight back to France when he gets a text from Franz._

_Thank you for all of your hard work and effort with us this second half of the season. I know it hasn't been an easy year for you, but thanks to your contributions we have experienced our best season to date. Everyone back in Faenza is more than excited to have another successful season with you, and, as always, you're welcome to drop in at anytime._

_Have a good winter break, a merry Christmas and a spectacular new year. See you in February._

_-FT_

"Why couldn't we just take the Aston?" Max groans dramatically, flopping into the passenger seat of Pierre's company provided, Toro Rosso colored Civic with a thud. "I can't believe you're driving me around in a Honda Civic!"

"Hey!" Pierre laughs back, feigning offense, "it's not just any Civic, it's a Type R, and where exactly are we going to fit a Christmas tree in the Aston?" He motions behind him to the hatchback and the backseats folded flat- there's enough room to probably park an entire Smart car back there.

"On top. Obviously," Max quips, but he buckles his seatbelt and flicks the seat warmer switch on regardless.

"Yeah right. And then you would've bitched about the paint getting scratched for months," Pierre jokes back, wiggles the shift knob more than necessary to check that the car is in neutral.

"Forget how to drive standard already, Gasly?" Max snickers, to which Pierre just rolls his eyes.

"As if," he murmurs, "You never got to see my piece of shit Peugeot that I learned how to drive in. Replaced the clutch at least four times," he grins, and Max smiles back with the same intensity.

"Oh yeah?" Max questions, throwing his arm haphazardly to the side and slinging it over the back of Pierre's seat.

"Oh yeah," the Frenchman laughs, "It was an old 104. Baby blue. One of the doors had been kicked in by the last owner." He pauses, smiling to himself, "Best car I've ever owned."

"Better than the Aston?"

"Of course!" Pierre asserts, only half joking, and Max gives him a playful nudge on the shoulder. 

He glances up into the rearview to check behind the driveway of Max's Monaco apartment, makes eye contact with himself in the reflection, and finally realizes- _you finally look like yourself again, no longer like a stranger in someone else's skin._

"Hey, Max," he quietly wonders aloud when they pull out onto the main streets, Christmas lights twinkling off the lightposts above them. The Dutchman is fumbling with the radio controls haphazardly..

"Do you care if we stop and get breakfast afterwards? I'm starving and you don't have shit in your apartment," Pierre complains.

Max smiles softly, leans over the center console and presses a delicate but lingering kiss to Pierre's cheek.

"Of course," he sighs, "I thought you'd never ask."

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you for reading and for any possible feedback.  
if you or a loved one is dealing with an eating disorder or depression, please don't be afraid to reach out. included below are links to resource compilations so that you can find help no matter where in the world you are:  
https://www.eatingdisorderhope.com  
https://nndc.org/resource-links/  
https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/


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